


To learn your lines before

by risinggreatness



Series: Circle 'round the sun [93]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 15:04:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3386192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/risinggreatness/pseuds/risinggreatness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pres imagines more expectations of himself than there are (not EU compliant)</p>
            </blockquote>





	To learn your lines before

When Nalia flashes a grin at him, Pres’s stomach flips as easily as the Falcon.

He grins easily back; she flushes.

Neither of them talks to the other for a couple of days.

\----------

Stooping over in the grass, Set picks something up. Pres continues his survey of the area.

“Hey Pres, come take a look at this.”

Pres jogs over, eager to see what clue they have now. It’s a small stone fragment, chipped off from some larger carving. “Can you read it?”

Set squints, considering the ancient Jedi ( _Pres hopes_ ) runes.

Pres pulls at the sleeves of his robes ( _already too short for his arms_ ): a nervous habit. If his clothes were for New Alderaan, the length would be corrected right away. Can’t let an heir look unkempt on the diplomatic stage.

Pres hates growth spurts. ( _Dad reminds him they have to stop sometime._ )

“The piece is too small to get a lot of information from it, but it looks like ‘hot springs.’ And whatever springs were around when this was written are probably long underground.”

Pres feels a faint rumble off in the distance.

Set looks up from the fragment, “You know what this means –”

Pres is distracted by the small gathering cloud just beyond the horizon. “Umm, we might need to put that off, Master Set.”

Set notices the oncoming force. “Mercenary army?” he asks, with the air of the unconcerned.

The Pirate Wars are fresh in Pres’s still-young memory. Though his parents have fared much worse, it is the most consuming conflict Pres can imagine. A resurgence is definitely unwelcome.

The closer the sound, the less it sounds like the rattle of ship’s engines. It sounds like hundreds of heavy, charging legs.

Oh, _shit_.

“Run!” Set yells; Pres needs no prompting to follow his master’s command.

The Fields of Banir didn’t seem large, up in the air before they landed. Now there’s no end in sight. The grauls’ green hide blends too well with the newly-grown grass, hiding the number of predators in the stampede.

Pres could glance over his shoulder to get a sense of how many there are, but he already knows the answer. Enough to not waste time looking and counting.

Pres’s sides ache and his leg bones are compounded.  He almost trips over a rock and he’s not sure how much longer he can keep this up, the grauls’ snarls practically in his ear.

Something yanks him back, jerking his neck, as the earth runs out, dropping down to churning waters.

Pres looks over to Set, hand still holding to his robes.

Heights aren’t what Pres is afraid of.

“You ready for this?” Set asks, tentative in his assurance. ( _Pres isn’t sure if he imagines Set’s own nerves._ )

A short nod.

Without another word, Pres and Set step back a few paces, then launch into their runs and jump. ( _Wind rushing past ears is so different from ship’s atmospheric entry._ )

The water hits hard, murky in his eyes as Pres kicks for the top. Set’s already emerged. Hundreds of feet above, grauls bark and howl, unwilling to move another inch and plummet downward.

The prospect of swimming for hours to find shore already exhausts Pres, but the corner of his eye catches their good luck.

“Set!” he yells, spitting out salty water. Set’s head spins around.

“There’s a cave over there! Maybe our springs are that way too!”

Set grins and kicks, ready to go exploring. Pres swims quickly after.

Pres and Set will add to the family lore of temple-hunting.

\----------

The first kiss with Nalia is a mess, not at all what he wanted. He’s caught unawares and is stiff; arms hanging at his side.

She frowns slightly. He makes a point of staring at his feet. They part awkwardly.

“Sorry.”

“Sorry.”

How could he have ruined it so spectacularly when she finally had the guts he lacked?

Training at the Temple for both of them becomes the same awkward affair it was before. Pres sees Set catching their avoidance and says nothing; Pres is suspicious his master brings them back to the Temple more often because of it.

He’s torn between deep embarrassment and thanks.

He finds her returning from her own mission with her master; Pres grabs her hand and pulls her into a quiet corner, away from everything else.

“Sorry again about last time. I should have been better –”

Her protests match his, “No, no, I shouldn’t have jumped you, but I thought you liked me –”

“I do like you! I like you a lot!”

She looks taken aback at his fervor. He’s a bit surprised himself.

Tentatively, daring to hope, “Should we try again?”

She smiles and nods, “Definitely.”

The second is undoubtedly better. They crush into the mats leaning against the wall of the empty training room.

( _Pres doesn’t think about The Talk mom and dad gave them._

_“Don’t need grandkids yet,” dad said in what_ he _thought was an authoritative voice._

_Sam scowled, Bee looked downright smug. Not bothering to stop his free-flow of thoughts, Pres blurts, “And there’s definitely at least nine months between your anniversary and my birthday.”_

_Both mom and dad looked ready to smack him._ )

His hands cup her face, but she pulls them down to her waist then she tugs her robe up.

Pres would do the same, but his mind’s going a little fuzzy. This is happening. Short of bringing his hands further under her robes, he pauses.

“Yeah?” his voice sounds incredibly stupid in his ears.

She nods, the corners of her mouth quirking up as she reaches for his again. Nalia makes a noise; Pres redoubles his efforts, feeling pretty pleased with all of himself.

Someone’s throat clears.

The next noise both Pres and Nalia make is not dignified.

Aunt Mara stands there, arms crossed, definitely amused. However red Nalia is Pres imagines his face is even worse.

“If you two are done here, some padawans need the room.”

Pres has never been more grateful for his long stride, Nalia nearly matching him.

The moment’s lost, but Pres won’t be deterred again.

“Some other time when my aunt won’t walk in on us?”

Nalia laughs, “Yeah, I’ve got no desire to repeat that again. Your aunt showing up I mean! Everything else was good!”

Pres smirks. Third time will be a charm.

\----------

Being pulled into a lecture with Threkim Horm isn’t the worse thing Pres can imagine happening at mom’s annual New Alderaanian council dinners, but he wishes the man weren’t increasingly in his cups.

Bee and Sam lucked out, off on their missions, leaving Pres to his own defenses, rather than in the security of their Heir Huddle.

“We are lucky, to have made it in such strong numbers, your mother among us.”

Pres only nods, looking to someone else at the table for support. There is none.

“Of course, the council and remaining elders wish she had cemented an alliance with another system –” Pres rolls his eyes, unnoticed. He’s _never_ heard that one before. “– but one expects flexibility in uncertain times. It’s unfortunate your father couldn’t be of assistance to the system sooner.”

Pres doesn’t need to listen to this anymore. He pushes his chair back from the table and moves into the capitol’s foyer. There aren’t many milling around; most still linger at the dinner table.

Pres finds a corner by the columns to himself and lets out a huff. It is unbelievably stupid that people still feel the need to complain about mom marrying dad. Not just that they dislike dad, but that his sisters and he are not the future they expect for Alderaan.

( _Maybe they aren’t, but don’t say it to their faces. Horm is lucky mom would kill Pres if he punched him… well, pretty much anywhere._ )

“Council dinner getting you down?” dad asks, appearing at Pres’s side.

Pres grunts in response. Whatever he’s heard, dad’s heard tenfold.

“Your mom says sorry for sticking you next to Horm.”

Turning to face dad, “How do you put up with it?”

( _How did the system’s remaining politicians end up like this? The people mom tells them about: grandfather, grandmother, old Alde – none of them held Alderaan together like this._ )

“Ah,” is all dad says for a moment. “What was I today, an undercity street urchin?”

“No, I think he’s mad you and Uncle Luke didn’t blow up the Death Star sooner.”

Dad ponders, considering being disliked for something he never expected.

“I can live with that,” he shrugs.

Horrified, “Dad! You would have killed mom!”

“I _wanted_ to kill her those first couple days. And might have. She _could_ have. Thank your uncle for not letting that happen.”

Pres sighs. No way is dad going to take this seriously. Dad takes the hint.

“Look, it doesn’t really get easier, but it’s easier to tune out. Plus with you kids in the picture, all the pressure’s off me now.”

Dryly, “Thanks, dad.”

“Not a problem. I’m good at pawning off responsibility. Did he really give me credit for the Death Star?”

“He was pretty drunk. Everyone who matters knows you had nothing to do with.”

Dad pulls Pres into a quick headlock as the rest of the diners filter slowly into the hall.

\----------

The diner is a real dump.

Ahsoka can’t believe it’s there.

“It has to be new management,” says Pres doubtfully.

The inside matches the outside. The fluorescent lights do little to brighten up the restaurant.

“The menu’s even the same,” Ahsoka says, clearly in awe a place she went to _forever_ ago still exists. Pres is impressed too, honestly. He wasn’t expecting Ahsoka’s mad little notion to come true.

“Try the Trammistan chocolate shake,” she asserts with confidence.

“How do you even know about this place?” he asks, shifting on the uncomfortable booth seat. It is odd that a Jedi would know about a dive in the lower levels of the Senate district.

“Your grandfather took me a couple times,” she answers, not looking up from the menu.

Oh, right. Well, it makes sense to Pres. If he was sneaking around incognito at the senate and got hungry, he’d have to pick a sketchy place too. The absurd visual of Vader here, ordering a shili cheese dog, pops into his mind, the reason behind The Senator’s Bill inexplicable survival. A bark of laughter escapes Pres.

Ahsoka’s eyebrow shoots up in interest.

“Nothing, nothing,” he covers quickly. ( _Although she’d know if it was shili cheese dog or brualki brisket._ )

The shakes come out before the rest of the food. Pres and Ahsoka sip almost simultaneously.

It sticks in his throat, practically dry.

“Ugh!”

“Okay, this is crap,” Ahsoka agrees.

“How do you mess up a milkshake?” Pres asks, disbelievingly. He tries to drown the flavor out of his mouth with a glass of water; it doesn’t seem to work.

“It takes a lot to make one this bad. I agree, change of management.”

Pres fishes for his credits and slams them on the table, “I don’t want to know what the rest of it tastes like, sorry.”

Ahsoka nods in agreement, taking care of her end. “You mentioned Chewie had a recommendation?”

Pres appreciates his near-raw nerfburger all the more.

\----------

Meeting up with the delegation from Mon Calamari wasn’t supposed to be a mission. Not really, anyway, just a quick flyby and onto the next system.

But here they are: a would-be assassin’s blaster at the old admiral’s head, surrounded by at least two dozen others.

When the third delegation revealed themselves as neo-Imperialists, Pres reached for his lightsaber. The unprecedented part was mom ignited hers faster. ( _He has no memory of her ever using it outside of the Temple, though it’s constantly at her side._ )

“Senator, I advise you to let them take me,” Ackbar cautions.

Pres swallows the lump in his throat, silently agreeing as he palms his lightsaber between his hands. It’s a risk, but they can return with backup. The Falcon at the very least.

“Listen to the solider, senator. Don’t play at knight like your boy,” the head of the kidnapping operation sneers.

Mom smirks slightly, and flinches towards – not the one with the blaster trained at the admiral, but one standing to the side; who’d shifted nervously throughout the proceedings. He fires his blaster; mom deflects it, landing squarely in between the head soldier’s eyes.

Pres only has a fraction of a second to gape open-mouthed.

At his dropping to the ground, it’s pandemonium. Blasters ring out and lightsabers hum. Pres is sure he knocks four of the imposters down.

As the dust settles, only a handful of Imps still stand, some Mon Calamari injured, but alive.

“Sorry that blaster shot was a little close, Gial,” mom apologizes.

“And I apologize for my uncertainty at our own capabilities. It is hard to not remember you as the girl in the command center,” he says wistfully.

It’s stupid Pres never would have thought mom incapable of either, but dad constantly harps on how mom’s good at everything ( _depending on her mood, it ends with a frown or a face that grosses Pres out._ )

And being a Jedi is definitely one of them.

\----------

It isn’t a surprise when Pres finds Bee on top of the hangar, legs dangling over the precipice. Bee and Sam are remarkably similar in their habits of avoidance – find the highest point and stay there.

It is a surprise Bee doesn’t want to be around everyone, mere hours after having successfully completed her trials alongside Sam.

“You here to tell me to get back to the party?”

Pres eases his way down next to her, not looking to fall off the edge.

“It is for you and you can’t let Sam’s ego get the better of her.”

The comment elicits the laugh Pres hopes for; he grins.

Bee sobers, quietly, “I never asked you.”

A nervous bubble swells in Pres’s stomach, “Never asked me what?”

“What it’s like to be cut free from your master; to have to live up to the expectation of everything else. I always took it for granted, practically sharing a brain with Sam.”

Bee’s so certain of everything in Pres’s mind; whatever bothers her has to be something unstudied.

“I’ve always been a little jealous of that,” Pres confesses.

“Well, we haven’t made it easy,” Bee admits. Memories of arguments, of exclusion fade forward.

They go quiet again. The hangar rumbles from below.

“It is a lot… all things considered,” Pres ventures finally. “But you and Sam shouldn’t worry. You know the Force innately – it’s the family thing. And you passed a lot better than I did.”

A realization dawns on him, and with mock seriousness, “You two didn’t cheat off each other did you?”

Bee bumps shoulders with him, “You’re such a shit.”

“My duty as the oldest.”

“ _There_ you are,” yells out Sam from behind.

Pres and Bee turn their heads around.

“If you don’t get back now, I’m not going to leave anything for you two. No booze, no cake.”

“This is our cue,” Pres stands, bumping his hand on Bee’s shoulder. “Besides, if you leave Katya with our family any longer, she might not want to date you much longer.”

“Such assholes,” Bee mutters as she gets up.

They all descend to the rest.

\----------

“No, no, no!”

Pres hears the yells from the cockpit of the Falcon. He scrambles up from the hatch and dashes to the annoyed tone of his sister.

Sam punches the dashboard with the same vigor dad uses to kickstart it back from death.

“No luck?” Pres asks, one eyebrow raised.

“I’m gonna kill him, giving us the ship when it obviously needs an overhaul.”

“We’re not losing life support are we?”

Sam checks the gauges ( _not exactly a reassuring sight; why didn’t she look before?_ ), shakes her head and slumps back into the captain’s seat.

So they’re not going to die from lack of heat and oxygen on the ship. Plus one to Pres and Sam.

“You put out a distress call?” he asks, leaning on the back of her seat.

Sam cranes her neck upward, frowning, “I’m not stupid.”

Pres throws his hands up in defense, “Alright, alright!”

He knows why Sam’s upset. She wanted her first mission as a fully-knighted Jedi to be full of adventure. Pres feels a little guilty for playing up his own, raising her expectations unrealistically.

And the fact is they don’t live in their parents’ time. Pres smiles a little wanly to himself; Sam would fit in all too well.

It’s going to be a long wait for the rescue ship to come, even with the remedial repairs they could work in the meantime.

“So…” Pres drags out, “What’s with you and Jon Bramsin?”

Immediately on the defensive, “Who told you?”

“Well, you just did, but it was pretty obvious after the last dinner mom made us go to. You didn’t help yourself by not putting up the usual fight.”

The idiots were holding hands under the table.

Sam sighs, her annoyance tinged with contentment. Yet another blatantly obvious sign.

Snapping out of it, “But don’t say anything to mom and dad yet. Mom especially.”

“And why would I do that?”

Sam waves her hand dismissively, “Politics. Jon’s not exactly mom’s favorite person at the moment and he wants to hold off saying anything until after some bill.”

Count on Sam to be dating a politician and still not give a shit about politics. ( _New Alderaan’s lucky she’s not the oldest._ )

And if mentioned to dad, he’d tell mom instantly.

“I won’t tell them. But you owe me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam grumbles.

Giving up the opportunity to torment her just a little bit more, Pres heads back to his electrical work in the hold. He’ll be damned if the life support fails on his watch.

Deep in the bowels of the ship, he almost doesn’t hear Sam yelling at him again.

He pulls himself topside to see his uncle and cousin standing in the passage from the airlock.

“Heard you needed a hand.”

**Author's Note:**

> See author bio for discussion on this 'verse.


End file.
